I have been meaning to write some self-portraits as poems for a long time, and finally managed to smash one out. It’s pretty dark, but it was a nice cathartic release for me to write it.
Again, it’s in Iambic Pentameter (I can see why The Bard was so into it), and is in the Terza Rima form that one of my students got me on to (thanks, if you’re reading).
Brace yourself for some angst and self-pity – as if you aren’t expecting that from my writing anyway.
He stares at me back from the polished glass,
the light behind him sparkling like fireworks,
but as my view adjusts I see nought but a mask.
In darkened eyes though is a world of hurt:
of times abandoned – those who seemed to care
aware of burning pain that’s in the works;
of times beat down – hands thrown into the air,
the desperate surrender in his voice
simply a window into his despair;
of hard regrets – as if he had a choice
to be like this, suffer like that, and hold
back tears. Instead I watch the mask rejoice.
I can’t imagine what he’ll look like old,
in fact that is the point – the mask won’t change,
but stay the same, its sincere smile cold.
He looks away, and so do I, the page
on which we both reside is equally
a place to go and hide, as is the stage
that is our life. My thoughts are where he’ll be:
the hateful gaze remembered in mind’s eye
while in my mournful thoughts I’ll try to see
a proper way to help him when he cries –
in that reflection all I see is I.